


but your kids are gonna love it

by jugheadjones



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Back to the Future Au, Battle of the Bands, Bisexual Male Character, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Multi, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-06-09 22:16:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15277344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: Archie Andrews is running out of time.The Battle of the Bands is coming up, and if The Archies want to beat The PussycatsandThe Reggies, they're going to need more time to rehearse. To make matters worse, Archie's chronically late for school, and his dad won't get off his case about it. He needs a time machine just to make all of his detentions.When Archie volunteers to help Dilton Doiley test out his latest invention in the mall parking lot, he figures things can't get any worse. Only they do. Like how he accidentally hooks his dad up with his girlfriend's mom, twenty-five years in the past.Or how if he doesn't get Veronica's parents back together fast in 1992, he'll never have existed in the first place.





	1. Late for School

Archie Andrews is late for school. 

He hears the bell ring from a block away, and quickens his stride, pushing through the ache in his lungs as he makes a mad dash through the parking lot toward the door. 

“Don’t go in that way.” Jughead’s suddenly barring his path as Archie charges up the front steps. “The Bee’s on the warpath. I saw two kids get tardies coming in.” 

“Thanks, Jug,” pants Archie, out of breath. “How do I-” 

“Back way. Or I’ll sneak you in through the caf.” His best friend gives him a shove toward the steps. “But we have to be quick, I’m missing home ec.” 

“Give it up, Arch!

Archie blinks up in the sunlight to see Reggie Mantle hanging out of an upper-story window, grinning down at him. He cups his hands around his mouth to yell. “I’ll let you know how your date with Ron goes while you’re in detention.”

“Ignore him,” says Jughead quickly, grabbing the back of Archie’s shirt. “Come on, let’s go around back.  _ Hurry _ .” 

They sprint down the front steps, Archie almost tripping on the last one, and power through the side yard and around to the back, stepping high to avoid trampling the new tulips Svenson had just planted. At the back entrance, Jughead looks wildly left and right before giving Archie a shove. 

“Coast is clear.” 

Easing open the peeling-painted doors, they slip into the cool hallway. First period has already begun, and the rows of blue lockers are silent and deserted. A new coat of polish gleams on the linoleum floor and the gold school crest.

“Run,” whispers Archie, and the two of them begin the dash down the hallway, stepping on the balls of their feet to keep from making noise.  

“STOP RIGHT THERE!” 

The holler slices through Archie’s body like a knife and he freezes. He feels Jughead’s body weight slam into his back. Principal Weatherbee emerges from the office, arms folded, a scowl on his face as he stares them down. Archie deflates. 

Why was it Weatherbee seemed to have a special radar for his wrongdoings? 

Weatherbee turns to Jughead. “Jughead, how many tardies do you have this year.” 

“One, sir.” 

“This makes two. Get on to class.” 

With a guilty glance in Archie’s direction, Jughead averts his eyes and hustles down the opposite hall towards the home ec room. Archie can’t help feel a twinge of exasperation. Why hadn’t Jughead had the common sense to try the back cafeteria door first? Beazley would never rat them out. They could have crawled behind the salad bar and come up home free. Now he was going to get stuck with a detention. 

“Archie. Walk with me.” Weatherbee’s forcing a smile, but it’s not a reassuring one. It looks like someone’s stuffed wire hangers in his mouth to get it that way. Archie hunches his shoulders in and lets Weatherbee lead him down the hallway, marching him like they’re headed to the draft board. 

“Riverdale High has been open since 1942. With about sixty students to a graduating class, that makes almost five thousand young people who have walked through these hallowed halls.” Weatherbee’s smile is disappearing with every word. He keeps jabbing Archie in the shoulder with a folded square of paper that had been in his hand. “Five thousand students, and somehow,  _ you _ are the only one to get on my every last nerve.” 

Archie stays quiet. 

“You’re just like your father was at this age,” Weatherbee continues, “and if you don’t shape up, you’re going to end up in big trouble.” 

“Yes sir,” mutters Archie, his eye caught by one of the colourful posters that Ethel and the student council had hung up around the school. Chuck Clayton had done the illustration - a guitar and an amplifier in a boxing ring, both wearing gloves. The ring is on fire. Dramatic lettering above the fighting instruments declares: RIVERDALE HIGH SCHOOL BATTLE OF THE BANDS. 

Archie’s heart sinks further. He was the one who had called all the extra band practices this week in the first place. If he got detention, the Archies would have to practice without him, and they were already behind as it was. How the hell were they supposed to beat Josie and the Pussycats with no time to rehearse? Especially if his dad got it through his head to ground him for this. 

Weatherbee is still harping on him. Archie realizes he’s being frog-marched to his first period, and he panics, realizing he’d left his history worksheet at home on his kitchen table. “You’ve got a real attitude problem, Andrews, you’re a slacker! I see more of your father in you every day. Mark my words, no Andrews ever amounted to anything in the history of-” 

“Well, here’s my class,” Archie interrupts. 

“Not so fast.” Quicker than the human eye can follow, Weatherbee’s torn a page off his detention pad and is scribbling out a yellow slip. He has an almost-real smile for the first time, as though sending students to the slammer gives him inordinate amounts of glee. “Report to Miss. Haggly immediately after the bell rings.” 

With nerveless fingers, Archie takes the paper from him. “Is that all?” 

“Lose the attitude.” Weatherbee gives him an evil eye that could melt the wings off butterflies and storms off back in the direction of his office. Archie lets out a heavy sigh. At this rate, he shouldn’t have bothered getting out of bed at all. In some alternate universe there was an Archie just like him, still blissfully fast asleep. 

He pushes through the classroom door. Reggie, seated by the window, raises a hand to his forehead in the L for Loser as he walks in the room. Moose sniggers. Archie ignores them, taking a seat at his desk and tossing his cell phone onto the metal shelf of his desk. He can feel everyone’s eyes drift interestedly to him, and then away as Miss. Haggly speaks. 

“Joining us at last, Archie?” 

Archie mumbles something non-committal. Betty turns around in her chair to look at him, and Archie winces when he sees more question than sympathy in her face. 

_ Detention?  _ she mouths. Archie looks down and pretends not to see. He waits until Betty’s ponytail turns back around. 

_ Bzzzz.  _ His phone suddenly explodes into noise, skittering across the metal bottom of his desk. Quick as a flash, Archie reaches out to silence it. Miss Haggly stops writing on the chalkboard and turns around. 

“All right, who’s texting in class?” 

Reggie’s hand is up like a flash. “It’s Archie, Miss Haggly.” 

“No, it isn’t.” Archie lies. Miss. Haggly glares at them both before addressing the whole class.  

“Phones away, all of you. We’re talking about Ancient Greece today. Who can tell me the basic tenants of Presocratic philosophy?” 

Betty, ahead of him, shoots her hand up. With Haggly distracted, Archie fishes his phone out of his desk and checks the message. Three winking cat emojis in a row, from Josie. He glances over his shoulder at her. Josie is sitting calmly with her eyes on the board, looking as smug as a kitten. Of course she was. Archie had heard the Pussycats practicing in the gym last weekend. They were a cinch to win.

He’s trying to think of a reply when another message comes in, this one from Reggie.

REGGIES RULE. Three gold trophy emojis and a flexing bicep. Archie rolls his eyes so that Reggie can see. If only the Pussycats were all he had to worry about. Earlier that year, Reggie had quit the Archies to form his own rival band: The Reggies. Archie hated to say it, but they were pretty good too.

“Andrews, are you rolling your eyes at me?” Haggly’s voice again. Archie turns white. 

“No, Miss. Haggly,” he stammers. 

“Maybe you’d care to tell the class why you’re disrespecting my lesson plan.” 

Archie sinks way down in his chair, wishing he’d disappear. In his haste to drop his phone back in his desk, his thumb bumps the switch that silences it. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

_ BZZZ. _ His phone goes off again in his desk, louder than ever and unmistakably from his direction. The class bursts into laughter. Even Betty’s ponytail bobs down as though she’s smiling and trying to hide it. Though she might just be really angry. 

Miss. Haggly clicks down the aisle toward him in her massive shoes, her hand held out for the phone. As Archie goes to pass it over, his eye lands on the name of the person who’d texted him. 

_ Veronica Lodge.  _

“Wait-” gasps Archie, as Haggly snatches the phone out of his hands. “Can I just-” 

But the phone disappears into the huge pocket of her pantsuit, and she goes clacking back up to the chalkboard. 

* * *

“You didn’t answer my text,” complains Veronica at lunch, swinging one of her high-heeled feet over the bench so she can slip in at Archie’s side. 

“Archie got his phone taken by the Hagster,” announces Reggie, taking a massive bite of his sandwich and swigging down some peach iced tea. Betty frowns at the name. Miss. Haggly is her favourite teacher. 

“Reggie, why are you here?” speaks up Veronica. “No offense. I just thought you were mad at us all after the naming fiasco.” 

_ The naming fiasco.  _ Also known as: Reggie had wanted to change the name of the group to The Reggies, and had pitched a fit when Archie hadn’t gone along with it. They’d voted 4-1. 

“Just thought you might want to spend some time with a real winner,” says Reggie with a nonchalant shrug. “Before Carrot-top exiles himself to Losersville forever.” 

Archie looks at Jughead, who rolls his eyes. Veronica, annoyingly, doesn’t seem to mind Reggie’s huge ego. She giggles and Archie sees red. 

“Get out of here,” he snaps, glaring at his rival. “We have some important band stuff to talk about.” 

Reggie shrugs. “All right. But it’s a little late for strategy. Your only hope is The Reggies dropping out.” He flexes one of his biceps as he stands up, switching his gaze to Veronica. “You know where to find me, kiddo.” 

“Unfortunately,” Jughead cracks. Reggie, nonplussed, scoops his lunch up and strolls off in the direction of where Chuck and Moose are sitting with Nancy. 

“Did you get detention?” Betty asks immediately after Reggie’s out of earshot. Archie tenses up, annoyed, but nods in the affirmative. 

“Yeah.” 

“Did they call your dad?” Betty asks, sounding worried. “Because if they did, we can’t practice over at your house. And we can’t practice at mine, and Jughead doesn’t have room-”  

“Woah,” says Archie. “You’re practicing without me?” 

Betty bites her lip and looks at Jughead. Jughead looks at his food. 

“Arch,” says Jughead awkwardly. “The thing’s next Friday. We kind of have to.” 

Archie’s chest tightens up. “But who’s gonna sing?” 

“Ronnie can sing.” 

Before he can reply, Archie feels a cool hand wrap softly around his upper bicep, nails digging in. Veronica has stood up from the table, her hand securely gripping Archie’s arm. “Archie and I are going to take a walk,” she announces. 

Jughead stuffs half a burger in his mouth. Betty sighs and pulls a thick textbook out of her bag, averting her eyes from both of them. Archie feels another twinge of annoyance, broken by the cool sensation of Veronica’s fingers as she tugs him gently toward the door. 

Veronica leads him out of the cafeteria and around the corner of the hall. Archie can’t resist looking both ways for Weatherbee before she presses him up against the lockers. 

“Here.” Veronica slips a heavy piece of black cardstock into his hands. 

“What is this?” The paper unfolds of its own weight, and Archie catches a glimpse of silver glitter. 

“An invitation to my Halloween party.” Veronica sighs. “I gave the rest of them out in homeroom.” 

Archie decides not to tell her he’ll probably be grounded until  _ next _ Halloween. He forces a smile. “Thanks, Ron.” 

“Just make sure you come,” she insists. “Daddy’s hiring a really good group. It’s going to be a costume ball.” She squeezes one of his hands. “Really romantic.” 

What was it about the squeeze of Veronica’s hands that made everything okay again? Archie smiles down at his girlfriend, wishing he could scoop her up in a kiss. Only one more strike against him in these school hallways, and he’d probably end up at Southside High for good. He settles for cupping her cheek instead. 

“Your dad’s okay with all of this?” Archie brushes a loose eyelash off her pretty cheek. Mr. Lodge had never exactly encouraged Veronica’s extravagant parties. Ron laughs. 

“Of course he is. He and my mother fell in love at a Halloween party, you know?” 

“Really?” Archie can’t imagine Mr. Lodge being younger than he is, much less in love. But Veronica’s eyes are starry. 

“They tell me the story all the time. My mom had just got juice spilled on her by some asshole. My dad was dressed as Sir. Lancelot, and he came to her rescue.” 

“Romantic,” says Archie, wishing he could muster more enthusiasm. He’s too worried about what his own father is going to say to him when he gets home today. “I’ll be there. If Dad doesn’t kill me.” 

Ron laughs lightly again, and reaches up to squeeze the hand that Archie has pressed to her cheek. “Fred? He’s a softie. He was young once too.” 

_ Yeah,  _ thinks Archie miserably.  _ About a hundred million years ago.  _

“So what happened to that audition tape I helped you make?” Veronica asks as they walk side-by-side down the hallway, toward their next period class. “Did you send it in yet?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Veronica turns to him, her eyebrows creased in a frown.

“I don’t know.” Archie stares at his feet. “It’s just -” He takes in a deep breath. “What if I’m not as good as I think I am?” 

Veronica squeezes his arm. “Of course you are.” 

Archie shakes her off. “No, I mean it. Why should I even try? You heard Reggie. His band’s doing better than us, and he only pulled it together a week ago. What if I suck?” 

Veronica snorts. “You think I’d let you in my band if you suck?” 

“No,” Archie admits, smiling for the first time. “But sending it to a real record company - I don’t know, Veronica. I’m not ready for that kind of rejection.” 

“You just have to believe in yourself,” she insists, kissing him on the cheek. “Everything will work out. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Archie says quietly, wishing he believed it himself. “Deal.” 

* * *

There are two texts waiting for him when Haggly hands his phone over after detention. One is the one from Veronica. The other is from Dilton Doiley. Archie opens Ron’s first. A row of heart emojis explodes in his face. 

_ B says you came in late. Rehearsal still on??? xxx _

Archie sighs and switches to Dilton’s. No trace of emojis here. Dilton texted like he was sending an old-timey telegram. 

COME TO THE MALL TONIGHT. 9PM. URGENT. 

_ Grounded, _ Archie begins to type back, but the screen suddenly fills with Jughead’s face. Archie sighs and answers the call. 

“Dilly text you too?” Jughead asks.  

“Yeah,” says Archie grouchily. Truth be told, he was in no mood for whatever weird invention Dilton wanted to show them. Ever since Archie and Jughead had tutored him through Phys Ed at the end of Freshman year, the brainiac had made a point of including the two of them in the weird experiments he cooked up in his workshop. Some of them - like his incredibly fuel efficient electric skateboard - were pretty neat. Others, like his automatic homework-machine, were a real bust. Either way, Archie didn’t think he could stomach any more of this day. He wanted to go home, dodge his father, and sleep for a year. 

“He’s talking about Twin Pines mall, right?” Jughead asks. It sounds like he’s chewing something. Which, with Jughead, was probably true. 

“Probably.” Twin Pines was a Riverdale strip mall that had seen better days. With the opening of the brand new commercial shopping center in the nineties, business had drained from the strip mall like sap from a maple tree. These days it was only seniors like Mrs. Beazley who went there. Mostly it was of use for its enormous parking lot - Fred had taught Archie how to park there, and littler kids used it for skateboarding. 

“Well, I’ll see you then.” 

“No, you won’t.” Archie drags himself to his locker and dials the combination. “Unless Dilton’s built a machine that will let me do this day over again.” 

Silence, except for the sound of chewing. Then Jughead’s voice again. 

“You mean he didn’t tell you?” 

“Tell me what?” 

“What he built.” 

“No.” Archie shoves some books in his bag, pausing to straighten the picture of Veronica he keeps stuck to his inside locker door. “Let me guess. A solar-charged matchmaking machine. An energy-efficient pogo stick.”

A long silence from the other end. Archie figures Jughead’s put down the phone to raid the fridge. He taps his sneaker impatiently. 

“Jug, are you there?” 

“Just come to the mall,” says Jughead, his words crunchy, as though he’s speaking around a mouthful of potato chips. 

“I told you, I don’t have time-” 

“You will soon,” says Jughead. “Listen to this. He built a time machine.” 


	2. The Slacker

Archie eases his front door open as carefully and as quietly as he can. Maybe if he just slips upstairs, he can avoid this whole ordeal. Or at least figure out what he’s going to say to convince his dad to let him hold practice here in an hour.

_Woof!_

“Vegas!” Archie hisses as the golden lab comes hurrying to the front door, nails clicking on the tile. “Ssh!”

No luck. He hears his dad’s voice issuing from the kitchen a second later.

“Archie? You want to come in here for a second?”

“Traitor,” Archie whispers to Vegas. His blood feels cold in his veins. Bracing himself, he walks the short distance to the kitchen doorway as though he’s walking to the executioner's chair. His father is standing with his back against the sink, arms folded. The sleeves of his flannel shirt are neatly cuffed. And he doesn’t look happy.

“Just got a call from the school.” Fred lets his arms fall loose by his sides. “Weatherbee says you were late again this morning.”

Archie closes his eyes, but doesn’t deny it. Fred gets closer to him, his voice cool with controlled anger. His brown eyes are warm and upset.

“Archie, I thought we talked about this. I thought you were mature enough to understand the consequences.”

“I am-” Archie mutters, but Fred’s building himself up to yelling now, gesturing furiously with one hand.

“I don’t know _what_ I have to do to get you to school on time! I _told_ you I was going in to work early. I woke you up before I left. I set your alarm for you. I packed your lunch, I left detailed instructions-”

Archie raises both hands in surrender. “Dad, don’t freak out-”

Fred tilts his head to one side, his mouth a thin line. “ _No_ , Archie, this is when I get to freak out. Do you realize you’ve been late _seven_ times this month? Do you know what that looks like on your academic transcript?”

“It’s not gonna happen again!” Archie knows temper won’t help his case, and he tries to swallow back the edge creeping into his voice. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

Fred’s face is flushed. “Maybe I’d believe that if that wasn’t what you told me the last seven times.”

Archie snaps. “What else do you want me to say? I’m trying! I really am!”

“I don’t think you are!”

Archie clasps his hands together, desperation winning out. “Dad. Please don’t ground me. The battle of the bands is next Friday, and then you can ground me all you want. But we’ll never pull an act together in time if you ground me this week.”

Fred looks exasperated. “I empathize with you, Archie, I really do, but-”

“No, you don’t! If you empathized you’d try to understand!” Archie can feel tears rising up in his eyes. “You always say that the two of us are a team. But you don’t care!”

“Archie, this is not a matter of me not caring.” Fred’s jaw is set tight. “I’m sorry, you don’t get to get off the hook for this!”

Archie throws his arms up in frustration. “Right! Because when you were my age, you were _perfect_ , right?”

“No.” Fred’s voice is icy. “But you can bet I took my responsibilities a hell of a lot more seriously.” Archie turns toward the stairs and Fred follows him into the front hall. “I had a band, too, remember? And I juggled practices. Homework. My part-time job. And was I late every other day?”

“It’s not the same thing!”

“How is it different?”

“YOU’RE RUINING MY LIFE!” Archie yells. Fred throws both hands in the air, exasperated, and Archie takes the opportunity to dash up the first six stairs toward his bedroom.

“YOU’RE GROUNDED!” Fred bellows after him.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” Archie screams back.

Vegas barks as his bedroom door slams shut, rattling the glass in every window of the house.

* * *

At 9:30 pm that night, Archie is standing in the parking lot of the Twin Pines mall, his pants sticky from climbing down the maple tree in his front yard. 

“So where’s Dilton?” he snaps at Jughead, who’s working his way through a bag of popcorn and two hot dogs that he’d inexplicably pulled from the front pouch of his hoodie. Archie’s temper is a little wrought after his fight with his dad. Hot Dog, at his master’s feet, whines for a sample. Jughead shrugs.

“Search me,” he says, his mouth bulging with bun.

“Well, text him. I’m not waiting around here forever. I had to sneak out just to-”

Suddenly, as if on command, two twin red headlights flash from the far side of the mall. A low engine rumble accompanies it, and as the two boys stand motionless, a vehicle drives up out of the dark to meet them. Hot Dog begins to bark, and Jughead hushes him.

“That doesn’t look like a time machine,” comments Jughead, as the car comes to a stop.

Archie’s eyes almost pop out of his head. That car had to be worth a fortune. A vintage DeLorean, if he was right, and gorgeously restored in red, with racing stripes on the sides. The stripes curl up into painted yellow and orange flame. It was cool. It was gorgeous. It made Reggie Mantle’s new convertible look like a heap of junk.

He’s flying down the parking lot toward it before he can stop himself, Jughead calling out his name behind him. Archie dashes up to the passenger side and gapes in awe as the door pops upward like a Lamborghini. A billow of pink-white smoke pours out, followed by their shortest classmate, his new glasses - Reggie had just used the old ones in their physics experiment - askew across his nose.

“Dilton!” Archie hollers. “Who’s car is this? Your dad’s?”

“Mine,” says Dilton importantly, fixing his glasses. “And it’s not a car. It’s my latest experiment.” His face is glowing. “It’s the big one, you might say. The one I’ve been waiting for all my life.”

“Not a car?” Archie is circling the DeLorean, skimming his fingers over the glossy paint. The open car door slowly lowers itself down back into place. “Not just any car, you mean. What year is this? Who did the paint job?”

“He likes cars,” Jughead explains. Hot Dog growls at the smoke and then thumps his tail.

“The shell is a DeLorean DMC-12,” Dilton says proudly. “I painted it. But it’s not restored to drive. It-” He pauses importantly here, looking from Jughead to Archie to make sure they’re listening. “It’s optimized for _time travel_.”

Archie had been pretty sure Dilton had been pulling their leg. Or at least that Jughead had misheard him. But no, he really was on about this time machine. Maybe he’d finally cracked.

On the bright side, if he had, maybe he’d let Archie drive it. It was just the Twin Pines parking lot.

“So where are we going?” Archie jokes, deciding to start nudging the conversation in that direction. He reaches out for the car door. “Ancient Greece? It might help with Haggly’s homework.”

“Can we go back to lunchtime?” Jughead wants to know. “That cold chicken salad was amazing. And I _hate_ things with salad in the name.”

Dilton draws himself up to his full (admittedly unimpressive) height and puffs his chest out importantly. “No one’s going anywhere in the past until it’s undergone rigorous testing. This project’s still in the early stages. The only testing I’ve done so far has been on animals, and I’ve only sent them a few minutes into the future.”

Hot Dog whines.

“And it works?” Archie demands as Jughead holds Hot Dog protectively. Dilton pushes his glasses up his nose.

“Of course it works. I developed it.” He checks his watch. “If you two consent, I’m going to attempt to send you an hour in the future. You’ll be back at this spot at 10:31, sharp. But first-” He shoves his android phone into Jughead’s hand. “Film me with this.”

Jughead sucks some ketchup from his finger and then lifts it.  “Okay, I’m recording.”

“I’m Dilton Doiley-” Dilton babbles immediately. “I’m standing on the parking lot at Twin Pines Mall, the date being October 26th, 2017, 9:31 pm. This is temporal experiment number one.”

Dilton keeps speaking a mile a minute, staring down the viewfinder. Archie wraps his arms around himself and tunes out the scientific jargon. He hadn’t come here to help these two make a movie. And his letterman really wasn't keeping him warm. In his haste to get out of the house undetected, he’d forgotten how chilly it was. 

“Hold on, wait.” Archie’s getting exhausted. “This has been really hilarious, but if my dad checks on me and I’m not in bed, he’s going to flip. I’m leaving.”

“Dude, hear him out,” Jughead protests, swiveling so that he’s pointing the phone at Archie. “If this works, we could go on trips to the past all the time. Do you know how cheap Pop’s prices were in the 1950s? Sodas for a _nickel_.”

“It’s not a joke,” Dilton insists, stepping in front of Archie and back into the frame of the camera. “I’ve developed time travel.”

“Yeah, you keep saying! Come on, Dilton, you have to tell me more than _that._ ”

“Since you insist on knowing my mathematical processes, okay.” Dilton gestures for Jughead to stop filming. “The design for the flux capacitor has been in my family for years. But it’s not until now that we’ve had the time and resources to put it into practice. My mother-”

“Actually, forget it,” says Archie, making up his mind in a flash. When Dilton really got going on something scientific, he could talk for hours. “Just answer me one question. Does traveling in time involve driving this car?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, we’re in.”

“We are?” asks Jughead, surprised. “Not Hot Dog. He gets carsick.”

Dilton beams, ignoring Jughead completely. He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out two synchronized clocks on lanyards. He hands one to Archie, who slips it obediently around his neck.

“Your clock and my clock are perfectly synchronized,” Dilton explains, hanging his own around his neck. “Jughead, get this on film. Here are the keys.”

He drops a heavy keyring into Archie’s hand, and all of the redhead’s doubts disappear. He hurries over to the driver’s side of the car and unlocks the door. It swings beautifully upward, releasing another billow of light pink smoke.

“Which road do I take?” asks Archie, sinking into the low-to-the-ground driver’s seat and plugging the key into the ignition. The upholstery is a gorgeous black. Dilton, exchanging last minute words with Jughead, just smiles. It occurs to Archie that this is the happiest he’s ever seen him.

“You won’t need them. Just stick to the parking lot. You should have enough pavement.”

Jughead slides into the passenger’s side with some reluctance, and Dilton leans in. He has his phone back, and Hot Dog’s leash in his hand. “It’s simple. All you have to do is get the car up to 88 miles an hour.” He flicks a few switches on the dashboard, and Archie notices a glowing inner panel leap to life. OCTOBER 26 2017. 

“Then what?” asks Archie, his fingers skating over the dashboard.

“You’re going to see some serious shit.”

A pink glowing button catches Archie’s eye, and he reaches hesitantly for it. Dilton frowns.

“Don’t touch anything,” he warns. “You should come back to this exact spot in an hour. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Sounds easy enough,” says Archie, and Dilton claps his hands excitedly together.

“Watch your heads.”

The car doors drop smoothly down around them, cutting them off from the world. Jughead’s head snaps around as he sees Archie reach for another button.

“Don’t touch anything, he said!”

“I’m just looking for the radio!” Archie shifts his seat back to accommodate his longer legs, inadvertently flipping a whole row of switches as he moves his chair. Jughead looks aghast.

“I think you changed something.”

“No, I didn’t. It’s fine.” Archie squints at the display, which still reads OCTOBER 26, spelled out in a reassuring green light. “I’ll just flip them back.”

“Don’t touch them again!” Jughead leaps across to stop him. “Just leave it. We should ask Dilton.”

“I can fix it,” Archie argues.

“Never mind!” Jughead says quickly. “I think it’s fine.”

“Okay.” Archie shifts his chair up again, brushing a row of buttons. “Time to burn some rubber.”

He twists the key in the ignition, and the engine leaps to life, the vintage car thrumming powerfully under him. Archie’s heart leaps in his chest. If this was how good Reggie felt all the time, no wonder he had such an ego.

Before he can stop himself, he’s yanked the car out of park and pressed down hard on the gas. The mileage is spelled out in a digital display just above the steering wheel, and he watches the numbers climb with excitement. 20 MPH. Then 40. Then they’re passing 60. His fight with his dad suddenly feels like nothing more than a minor disagreement.

“We’re going too fast!” Jughead yells, but Archie ignores him. They’ve got a lot of parking lot. He races through the dumpsters behind the JC Penney, tearing around the corner of the building to where a long, empty stretch of lot dominated the ground. 70. 75. 78. 80. 82. The white lines stream away behind him.

They are going fast. He can feel the car start to tremble, feel himself losing control of the acceleration. He’s over-aware of how difficult it would be to brake. Still, nothing to do but keep going. There’s a grassy patch ahead of them, dotted with trees. Archie aims between them. 85. 86. 87.

88-

* * *

Archie wakes up in the driver’s seat of the DeLorean, his head resting comfortably on his shoulder. The scissor doors are both wide open, letting beams of sunlight in. No smoke. Birds are singing.

Archie yawns and stretches, looking around in confusion. They’re still in the Twin Pines parking lot. Jughead’s curled up in the passenger seat, snoring. Archie checks himself all over, ascertains that he’s unharmed, and frowns in confusion. He doesn’t remember stopping or crashing the car. He lifts the clock from the lanyard around his neck to check the time, and all other thoughts are suddenly wiped from his head. Archie gasps.

“JUGHEAD! WAKE UP!”

Jughead sits up when Archie shoves him, groggily wiping his eyes. “Mom?”

“No, it’s me!” Archie scrambles out of the car, smoothing his shirt down. “Get up!”

“Did we travel in time?”

“Yeah, you dunce,” says Archie, showing him his watch, which reads 8:27. “We fell asleep! It’s morning. We’re about to be late for school!”

“Arch, the car.”

“Fuck the car!” Archie’s never cared less about a vintage DeLorean in his life. “We’ve got three minutes before the bell rings! If we don’t get there soon, my dad’s gonna ground me until I’m his age!”

“Archie-” calls Jughead, but Archie’s already running. Jughead can afford another tardy. He leaps over the concrete partitions at the far end of the parking lot and dashes for Main Street, his feet pounding hard against the pavement.

Fortunately, Twin Pines Mall isn’t very far from the high school. Archie takes a shortcut and dashes through some woods, ignoring the branches that slap at his face and arms. This path should take him up behind the football field, and then he could slip in the back door -

No time to check the clock. Archie flies across the football field faster than he’s ever run at practice, throws the back door open, and pounds into the hall Weatherbee had stopped him in yesterday.

BRIINNGGGGG.

The warning bell. Somehow, Jughead’s only a few feet behind him. Jughead can seriously run when he puts his mind to it. Archie had often argued they could use him on the football team if they hung corn dogs above the end zone.

His shoes are filthy from the dash through the woods, but he doesn’t care. A janitor is dragging a floor polisher around anyways. Which is weird. Hadn’t the floor been perfectly polished yesterday?

No time to ponder. Archie just has to make it down the hall to homeroom, and then he’s home free. In the corner of his eye he sees Jughead head, wheezing, toward home ec. He quickens his stride and slips through the door, heading for his normal seat and tossing his cell phone onto the metal shelf of his desk. Drops into the chair.

BRRRRINGGGGGG.

Archie’s shoulders sag in relief. His head swims. He’d made it. Somehow, impossibly, against all the odds, he’d made it to class on time.

Boy, he was going to throttle Dilton when he saw him.

Archie reaches in his desk to shoot Jughead a text, but quickly abandons his phone when an important-looking man he doesn’t know walks into the room. Maybe he was a sub. Archie’s luck just kept holding, if that was the case. He still didn’t have that worksheet done.

“Good Morning, class,” says the man. He’s tall and African-American, with long-ish hair. He’s in a dark blue suit with a matching tie.

“Good Morning Mr. Adams,” the class choruses in unison. Archie jumps. What was going on now? He’s pretty sure he’s never seen Mr. Adams before in his life.

And, hang on - why were the chalkboards in this class green?

Archie looks around, feeling a mounting sense of embarrassment and confusion. Instead of seeing Betty’s blond ponytail two seats ahead of him, there’s a redheaded girl he doesn’t know. And Archie’s pretty sure he knows all the redheaded girls at Riverdale High. Reggie’s not in his seat near the window. In fact, it’s not just Adams: Archie doesn’t recognize a single face.

He’s in the wrong class.

Great. All that work to get to class on time and he’d sprinted into the wrong door. Miss. Haggly was probably on the phone with his dad at this very moment. Archie stands up abruptly, snatching his phone out of his desk and drawing the eye of everyone in the room.

“Wrong class,” he stammers, and makes a beeline for the hall.

Outside, he dashes to the door of the next classroom before coming up short. The number on that brass plate was 104. Haggly’s History class was in room 103. Pivoting, he scans the numbers across the hall.

But that couldn’t be right. Because 103 was the door he’d just come out of.

Archie feels a distinct bubble of annoyance growing in his chest. Why had they relabelled all the doors? On a Friday?

No, that was stupid. It must be a different schedule today. Or class had been canceled, or something. He opens his phone to text Betty, but sees only empty bars in the top right corner. No service.

Archie stows his phone back in his pocket, and heads back to room 103. Cautiously, he presses his ear up against the crack of the door, below the window. He can hear the murmur of voices inside, but nothing distinct.

“Archie?”

Archie spins around. It’s Jughead, looking as freaked out as Archie feels. His face is pale under his mop of dark hair.

“There’s some other class in home ec. All girls. And they’re making ambrosia.”

“Get down,” Archie hisses, and Jughead immediately squeezes himself flat against the door with him. Archie rises up on his toes just enough to peek through the door window. The date on the chalkboard is yesterday's. October 26. And if only the mysterious Mr. Adams would move that map a little he could read the year. It looked like -

A burst of laughter from down the hallway interrupts them. Two boys in blue-and-gold letterman jackets have come out of the stairwell and are strolling in the opposite direction. Archie immediately dashes after them, ignoring the soft moan of “no!” from Jughead.

“Hey!” Archie calls, hurrying up behind them. He’d hoped it was Moose and Reggie, but as he gets closer he realizes he doesn’t know them. “Are we on a different schedule today?”

The boys ignore him, and he raises his voice, jogging quicker.

“Excuse me!”

They stop, then, and turn as one to face him. Archie skids to a stop in front of the pair. The tall one is a dead ringer for a more muscular Jughead, with dark brown hair and cool, sharp eyes. But it’s the shorter boy that suddenly makes all the breath woosh out of Archie’s lungs like he’s been hit.

His eyes are the exact brown of Archie’s own.

The moment their eyes lock seems to stretch out into eternity. Archie freezes, and feels everything in the hallway slow down around him. Distractedly, he notices Jughead falling in step beside him. Feels Jughead suck in a sharp, shocked breath at the same time he does and wants to tell him to be more subtle.

They’re both looking at him expectantly, and Archie opens his mouth, transfixed by the face he’s only seen in photos.

“W-what day is it?” he stammers.

The brown-eyed boy is smiling at him, bemused, his eyes curious. “It’s Monday,” he says calmly, and Archie’s knees almost buckle at the voice. “The twenty-sixth.”

“Oh, ah- and- what year?”

The brown eyes squint at him, a laugh glittering in their depths. “Is this a joke?”

“You’re not on the football team.” The boy who can only be a younger FP Jones frowns at Archie’s unfamiliar letterman, eyes flint-cold and calculating. “What grade are you in?”

“Don’t give him the third degree, F.” Fred’s gaze is still fixed with uncomfortable interest on Archie’s face. Archie watches his own eyes drop down to his torso and then back up to meet his. He gets a weird, bad feeling in his stomach.

_I think my dad just checked me out._

“Fred,” FP complains, tugging on his dad’s jacket, and Archie’s heart leaps in his chest at the name. He feels Jughead tug on his own sleeve.

“Come on,” Jughead hisses, a touch of panic in his voice. “We have to go.”

Fred’s grinning, speaking over Jughead. “What’s your name?”

Archie stands stock-still and silent, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. It would be a bad idea to give him his own name. He knows that much. But he suddenly can’t think of a single male name in the whole world. Jughead clears his throat and nudges him from behind. “Jughead,” Archie blurts out.

His dad looks confused. Archie can feel Jughead’s stink-eye on the back of his neck. “That’s his nickname,” he hears Jughead clarify quickly. “His real name is-“

“ANDREWS!”

All the hairs go up along the back of Archie’s neck and down his spine. He sees Fred freeze in a similar position, his smile dropping like it’s been struck from his face.

“STOP RIGHT THERE!”

Archie whirls around to see Weatherbee incoming - somehow looking exactly the same as he had yesterday.

_Has he never had hair?_

Archie’s frozen, somehow certain he’s done for. Fortunately, Jughead has the good sense to grab him by the hand and yank him toward the exit, the two of them dashing at top speed back through the doors of the stairwell. Heart pounding, Archie ducks down below the window, pressing his ear to the crack of the door so he can hear what’s going on.

“Andrews, this is your thirteenth tardy this year!” he can hear Weatherbee bellowing through the wood.

“Archie,” Jughead whispers, pulling on his arm. “Come on.”

They sprint down the stairs, taking refuge in a shadowy corner at the bottom. Archie feels nerves vibrating through his whole body. He stares at Jughead, who’s dead pale under his beanie.

“You know what this means, right?” Archie demands.“Dilton’s time machine worked.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” argues Jughead faintly. “There could be another explanation.”

“Another explanation? Like what?”

“We died and Riverdale High School is hell.”

The door opens above them, and Archie flattens himself to the wall. He hears two pairs of feet climbing the concrete stairs, headed for the top floor. His father’s voice floats down from above, warm with laughter.

“Did you see them take off when Weatherbee got here? You could use those two on the football team, FP.”

Jughead blanches at the name. Archie squeezes his hand as FP’s voice joins Fred’s, echoing on the concrete.

“Well, I’m glad you think it’s so funny. You’re going to be hard up wooing Hermione from the detention room, you know.”

Fred says something in reply that Archie can’t hear. His mind is spinning. Hermione. As in, Hermione Lodge.

_Dilton’s time machine worked._

“I don’t like it,” FP is saying suspiciously. A door creaks open far above their heads. “That’s an out of season jacket, it looked like it was from the fifties or something. What if they’re Baxter spies?”

“You worry too much,” Fred replies. “Let’s just-”

The door bangs shut, and their voices are lost. Archie slumps, boneless against the brick and slides down into a sitting position. Jughead swallows and sits down beside him.

“That’s our dads,” Archie says faintly.

“Yeah,” Jughead agrees, staring at his feet in silence. “It is.”

Archie yanks his phone out of his jacket pocket. “I need to call-”

The words _My dad_ dies on his lips. There’s still no signal. He shows it to Jughead.

“Can you use cell phones in the nineteen-eighties?”

“It’s the nineties,” says Jughead breathlessly, looking at him like he’s an idiot. “They were class of ‘93.”

Archie feels his face crumple. “But what are we supposed to _do_?”

“Find Dilton,”

“He’s not born yet, Jughead!”

Jughead goes even paler. “Shit. You’re right.” He nibbles on a fingernail and then lets his head fall back against the wall. “Okay, here’s a plan.”

“I’ll take anything at this point,” says Archie, staring dumbly at the lock screen of his phone. It’s a picture of himself and Veronica. Briefly, he considers the thought that this could all be a prank. But no, not even Reggie would have time to set this up overnight. And how the hell would he get Weatherbee in on it?

“We find the cafeteria,” suggests Jughead. “I’m hungry.”

“Jughead!” Archie almost slugs him. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re _literally_ in another dimension!”

“It’s not another dimension,” says Jughead dryly. “It’s our dimension. About twenty-five years ago.”

“We need Dilton! And my dad’s probably worried sick. I snuck out last night!”

“We just saw your dad,” replies Jughead, deadly serious. “He looked fine to me. And last night is _to_ night, if the calendar in the home ec room is anything to go by.”

“Shut up!” Archie buries his face in his hands. “I hate this. I want to go home.”

“Look, we just need to go back to the time machine and-” Jughead bites his lip. “I don’t know, put it in reverse or something.”

“Dilton told us we were going an hour in the future! Not twenty years in the past!”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Arch.” Jughead shrugs. “Maybe Dilton will come after us.”

“We don’t have time for that!” Archie stands up, brushing the dirt off the seat of his pants. “The battle of the bands is in a _week_! I have football practice after school!”

“You really don’t get the concept of a time machine, do you?”

Suddenly, the metal door at the bottom of the stairwell swings open. Archie almost jumps out of his skin as a balding, heavy-set man in a Riverdale High sweatshirt sticks his head in at them. “There you two are! Get out on the track!”

“Who, us?” squeaks Jughead. Archie gapes, transfixed by the man’s face. That’s his wrestling coach - only about twenty years younger and twenty pounds lighter. With a lot more brown hair.

Coach Kleats frowns at the two of them. “You’re not who I was looking for,” he says suspiciously. “Why aren’t you in class?”

“We were just going,” Archie says nervously. Kleats’ face turns red.

“GO! And no hats in school!”

Jughead whisks his beanie off with the speed of Weatherbee writing out a detention slip.

“And if you see your buddy Andrews,” Kleats hollers after them as they take off running, “Tell him I’ve got his number!”


	3. 1992

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haven't updated this in a month.... i need my own time machine

“What’s Dilton’s dad’s name?” Jughead asks as they walk together down the hallway. After holing up in a storage closet for most of first period, they’d finally decided it was safe to come out.The in-between classes bell had finally rung, and the halls were flooding with people.

Archie shrugs, eyeing a group of students who walk past them. “I don’t know.”

“Dude,” Jughead snaps as Archie’s head turns to follow a pretty black girl with a long braid. “So not okay. These people are our parents' age.”

Archie’s about to bite back a smart remark when his eye lands on a colourful flyer tacked to a bulletin board. He flies up to it, excited.

“Jughead do you see this?”

“You’re right.” Jughead joins him in a moment, tugging a second flyer off the bulletin board. “There’s science fair sign-ups right here. He’s probably on the list.”

“I meant this.” Archie shoves the bright fuschia flyer in his friend’s face. “They’re having a battle of the bands too! Look! On Friday!”

Jughead bats the paper away from him, unimpressed. “Archie, can we stick to the plan? We’re finding Dilton’s dad remember? So he can help us get out of this mess. I’ll bet you anything brains run in their family. Same way tardiness runs in yours.”

“Fine.” Archie carefully tacks the flyer back up, worry gnawing in his stomach. What if they didn’t get back on time for the concert, and Betty and Veronica had to play without them? What if they flopped? Worse - what if they were even better?

Jughead’s disappointed sigh wrenches him out of his thoughts. “No one named Doiley is on here. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.” He tacks the paper back up and turns to face Archie. “How do we find him if we only know his last name?”

“If you were Dilton’s dad, where would you be?”

Jughead’s eyes light up at the same time as the lightbulb clicks in Archie’s head. “The science lab!” they chorus in unison, and Jughead laughs.

“Perfect. Let’s hurry.”

Luckily, the layout of Riverdale High in 1992 is the same as they remember from 2017. The science wing is almost identical to the one Archie had left, with char marks on the walls and trophy cases containing dioramas of plant life. Most doors are plastered with posters about the school science fair. Archie lifts one to peek through the window of the door labeled LABORATORY.

“Class isn’t in yet. Come on.”

Stepping into the large room, they’re greeted by the sight of only one student, bending over a microscope at the very back table. He’s wearing a pair of baggy plaid pants with red suspenders over a white long sleeve. A red bucket hat and untied basketball shoes complete the look. Archie blinks rapidly in surprise.

“Excuse me,” Jughead speaks up. Archie sneaks a glance at the boy’s report page and feels like he’s been socked in the gut. The name in the top right corner is MYLES MCCOY.  “We’re looking for a student with the last name Doiley.”

“Why?” asks Myles simply.

“Uh-” Jughead freezes up, stammering.

“He’s the winner of a science award,” Archie jumps in, lying smoothly. Myles’ eyes switch over to his face. “We’re on the selection committee, and we were sent to give him his prize.”

Myles doesn’t seem to believe him. He reclines in his chair, folding his arms over his shirt. “You look pretty young to be on any so-called committee.” Archie glances nervously at Jughead, and Myles scowls at them. “Anyways, I’d check the gym. Now leave me alone. I have to finish this entire report over again after what that idiot Fred Andrews did to the lab.”

“Hey!” Archie snaps, before he can stop himself. “Watch what you say about my-”

Myles and Jughead are both staring at him. Archie swallows. “My friend,” he finishes lamely.

Myles frowns, looking suspicious.

“Who are you anyway?”

“Leaving!” says Jughead cheerfully, quickly steering Archie toward the exit. “We were just leaving.”

* * *

Stepping into the gym, Archie breathes a sigh of relief. It’s different from how he remembers it - the walls are a dusty grey instead of the glaring white, and the seal at center court is different - but it smells the same. The squeaking of shoes and the thumping of basketballs carry a rhythmic, soothing association. The encounter with Myles had left him tense, out of place, but this could be any high school gym in any century. He fits in for the first time since he’d woken up that morning.

Jughead, on the other hand, looks like he’s walking on knives. Archie watches him draw into himself, shoulders hunching up to his ears as he looks around. When Myles had mentioned the gym, Archie had wondered if they were setting up for the science fair. But nothing seems to be out of place except for the small group of boys in gym shirts scrimmaging under the hoop.

“I’ll handle it,” says Archie confidently, walking up to the pack. A tall, dark-haired boy has just made a breakaway toward the net, scoring an effortless layup. “Hey,” Archie says loudly, interrupting the game. “Is Doiley here?”

They all stare at him. One of the boys in Riverdale shirts pushes their way to the front of the pack.

“That’s me.”

Archie gapes. Dilton’s father is at least as tall as he is, his black hair gelled back off his forehead and a bruise on one cheekbone. He has noticeable biceps, and his legs are powerful with muscle. Most startlingly, he isn’t wearing glasses.

“Are-” Archie manages, embarrassed. “Are you-”

“I’m Kenny Doiley.” The jock tosses the basketball he’s holding to his friend, a black guy with his hair pulled back into a headband. “What do you want?”

“Uh…” Archie’s not sure if the story he’d cooked up would hold water, but he tries it anyway. “Tutoring.” Kenny squints at him, hard enough for Archie to wonder if Dilton gets his nearsightedness from his father’s side after all. He sticks his chin out, acting a bravado he doesn’t feel. “I’m flunking grade ten chemistry. I heard you could help.”

“Oh _hhh_ ….” Kenny rolls his eyes, tilting his chin up to the ceiling in a gesture of comprehension. “You want Tanya. She’s out of town.”

“Tanya?” Archie blurts out, and is interrupted by Jughead stomping hard on his foot. “Ow!”

“Dilton’s mom,” Jughead hisses in a stage-whisper, and Archie shoves him away. Jughead’s breath on his ear smells like pepperoni.

Kenny is eyeing them like he’s not sure if he can trust them or not. He rolls his tongue to the corner of his mouth and squints some more. “Yeah,” he says finally, with exaggerated slowness. “She’s at this science thing. Competition. She’ll be at the party tonight, though. I mean, you can see her there.”

“What party?” asks Jughead quickly.

“Doiley, stop talking to frosh and get back here!” calls out one of the boys under the net. Kenny grimaces and peels a sweat-soaked sheet of yellow paper from the pocket of his basketball shorts.

“Here.” He thrusts it at Jughead, who holds it as though holding an old banana peel. “Keep it. _Pass!_ ” he yells suddenly, turning his attention back to the scrimmage and holding his hands out for the ball. The pebbled skin hits his hands with a satisfying _whap_ , and he sprints back up the court. Archie watches him go with some longing.

Jughead is slowly unfolding the damp paper. Archie peers at it over his shoulder so he can read the writing. A drawing of a pumpkin takes up the middle of the page, the text advertising a Halloween party happening on October 26, 1992. Staring at the date, Archie feels like he’s been socked in the gut.

 _It was real._ It was real and he was definitely trapped, and Veronica wouldn’t even be born for another ten years. He hadn’t even spoken to her since yesterday afternoon. He touches his phone unconsciously through the pocket of his letterman, a pang in his chest. His battery would be low after spending the night in the Twin Pines parking lot. And he had a feeling no one in the school would be able to lend him a charger.

“Arch?” Jughead’s voice cuts into his thoughts. The patent squeak of basketball shoes has started up behind them again.

“Yeah, Jug?”

Jughead swallows. “Can we get something to eat now?”

* * *

Walking through town on their way to Pop’s gives Archie a sense of deja-vu unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. The layout of the downtown is the same - he even thinks he recognizes some of the potholes - but with slight variations that make everything seem subtly off. Stores that have been closed since he was born are bustling with activity; the dingy barber shop where Fred used to take him to get his hair cut as a child gleaming as if brand new. They pass at least three video rental places. What Archie remembers as an electronics store is currently a discount shoe warehouse.

“Maybe this is a bad idea,” Archie says nervously.

“Dude, I want a burger.”

“But-” Archie swallows nervously, the image of his father’s seventeen-year-old-face popping unbidden into his brain. “I dunno, I’m scared. Pop’s going to recognize us or something. Or we’re going to go back and find out we made us lose World War Two. And everything’s going to be my fault.”

“Look, if we’re waiting around for this party all day we’re going to have to eat eventually.” Jughead has the kind of serious look on his face that he only gets about food. “We spend a day in the nineties, we eat, we find Dilton’s mom and we go home.” They’re nearing the railroad tracks now, a familiar neon sign burning pink and red above them. “We just gotta wait it out.”

“Fine,” Archie agrees. They’re nearing the front door, and he finds himself both surprised and relieved to see that everything about Pop’s is the same. Pushing through the door, the effect is magnified, so that he feels for a strange and relaxing instant that he’s stepped back into 2017. The only difference is a gleaming jukebox sitting against the far wall, its neon tubes shiny in the sunlight. It’s a slow morning - only a few of the booths have occupants. A man who can only be Pop himself is behind the counter, a hairnet straining to contain his afro. Archie’s jaw drops.

“Morning kids,” Pop greets them cheerfully, setting two menus down at the counter so that they have no choice but to seat themselves there. Archie takes his usual stool, and is greeted with a tightness where he’s used to a wobble. Jughead pounces on the menu like a starving animal. “I’ll be right with you.”

“Look at these prices,” Jughead hisses to Archie as soon as Pop’s back is turned. Archie grabs the menu and scans it. Sure enough, most of the items are priced at under a dollar. “Dude, we can literally buy everything.”

“I think that might be suspicious,” Archie whispers back. He pats his pockets, searching for cash. “Just get something normal.”

Of course, Jughead doesn’t listen. The moment Pop comes back to take their orders he asks for four bacon cheeseburgers, a plate of steak and eggs, a rootbeer float, a banana split, and a basket of fries. Pop raises his eyebrow, but jots everything down. Archie, embarrassed, orders only a coke.

“You’re not sharing my fries,” says Jughead as Pop walks away.

“Do you think we’re dreaming?” Archie asks suddenly, a tense bubble of hope welling up in his chest. “Maybe this is like, a shared hallucination.”

“I’ll let you know once I get my burger.” As if on cue, Pop slides a tall rootbeer float across the counter to Jughead, and he takes a long sip. He sighs. “It’s perfect. I’m definitely not dreaming this.”

Pop sets down Archie’s coke with a thump, and Archie drags it toward himself. There’s music playing from the jukebox, sweet bubblegum pop that Archie doesn’t recognize. When Jughead’s food comes he attacks it as though he hasn’t eaten in hours. Archie can feel Pop watching them.

“You know I’ve only got one other customer with an appetite like yours,” he says to Jughead, polishing a soda glass.

“Who’s that, Pop?” asks Archie, because Jughead’s mouth is full of bun. He’s only saying it to be polite. He has a bad feeling he knows the answer.

“Name’s FP Jones.” Pop sets the glass down. “My best customer. You’ll probably see him around. Kids, if you don’t mind me asking, shouldn’t you be in school?”

Jughead blanches, his mouth freezing comically open in front of his burger. Archie jumps in to save him.

“It was cancelled,” he blurts out. “Or… uh…. we had an early lunch.”

Pop looks dubious, but accepts his answer. “Okay then.” He sets the glass down and pats the counter. “Your ice cream will be along in a second.”

“What a nightmare,” Jughead jokes under his breath as Pop walks away. “We go back in time and land on a Monday. I was all set for the weekend.”

“I _told_ you,” Archie bites back. “It’s too risky to hang around here. We need to get a story straight and find somewhere to hide out until the party and _you_ need to stop eating.”

Jughead gives him the evil eye. “If you think I’m passing up on these prices, you’re crazy. I don’t even want to go back to our time - kidding, I’m kidding!” he adds quickly, when Archie looks livid. “Fine. I’ll get my ice cream and we can find somewhere to hide.”

Archie sighs, deflating a bit. His heart pangs as he thinks about Veronica again. He’d been with her the last time he was in Pop’s. “Any ideas where?”

“I know a good place,” says Jughead with a smile. “Trust me.”


	4. The Power of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i almost didn't put this chapter in but.. if sir anthony micheal hall won't let the truth be known about what fred and fp were up to in high school it's gonna have to be me

The Twilight Drive In Theatre was built in 1950, on what used to be the very outskirts of the Riverdale town limits - a patch of town that some claimed had once been used as a graveyard for the original residents of the area. As the town had grown it had grown around the Twilight, until it was absorbed entirely into the Southside. Still, Northsiders made the trek down semi-regularly when they tired of their own main street theatre, parking in rows to lean back and escape in a movie.

In the fifties it was the town’s pride, it’s gaudy indigo sign a beacon in the night for young families and horny teenagers alike. It hardly mattered that it often got movies late or not at all, that the concessions were tasteless or that mosquitoes swarmed the cars like football players after the ball. The food was cheap and the movies were loud and the fenced in lot was bound by a kind of magic - a promise of mystery and intrigue for as long as you gazed out the windshield at the giant screen, suspended above the trees in the night. Attach the speaker to your car window and disappear.

In 1992 the drive-in shows no sign of the disrepair that they know so well in 2017. The sign needs a coat of paint, and mucky dry leaves crowd the aisles between cars, but the place is evidently still in use. As they take refuge in the projection booth, kicking their sneakers off at the door, Jughead looks around for a long time.

“It’s like it always was,” he says, yanking his beanie down to hide what Archie thinks might be tears glimmering in his eyes. “It’s like it always was. I wish we hadn’t wrecked it.”

Jughead shows him how you thread the reels onto the projector - in October of 1992 they have two options, _Candyman_ and Steven Seagal in _Under Siege -_ and they sit shoulder-to-shoulder so they can watch through the hole in the booth. For a few hours, Archie loses himself in the place - remembers being eight years old and squeezed into the backseat with Jughead or Betty, his father and mother in the front, still in love, holding hands. His chest feels tight.

“It was weird seeing your dad that age,” he whispers to Jughead, eyes glued to the knife fight onscreen, because he hasn’t yet found the words to talk about his own. He thinks of FP as he knows him - drunk, volatile, but mostly sad. “He looked like a really cool guy.”

Jughead just shrugs. “My dad was kind of a jerk in high school, I think.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Dunno, he was a hotshot, wasn’t he?” Jughead looks at Archie and almost smiles. “Aren’t all jocks big assholes?”

Archie shoves him with his shoulder. “He was good-looking, dude. I see why your mom-”

Jughead looks uncomfortable, so he lets that thought trail off. His mind turns to the two of them again, Fred and FP, turning to face him in that hall as though attached at the hip. It was one thing to be told they were best friends once - it was another to see it. They radiated the kind of closeness that he used to have with Jughead, before high school had dealt its deadly hand. It was scary to think that all that had disintegrated in a matter of years, crumbled really. Years of sourness and hurt and passing each other like strangers.

“He lettered in baseball,” says Archie. “My dad. My mom says he was really good. Like, Roy Campanella good.”

“Is that a type of pasta?”

“Oh, man, shut up,” moans Archie, leaning against his friend. “Think about something other than food for a change.”

Jughead sighs as the reel comes to an end. “Time to change the movie,” he offers, getting up.

“Dude, I hate Candyman. I don’t want to watch it anymore.”

“Candyman is an amazing movie. Do you know what a milestone it was for race relations in horror cinema? It’s totally a precursor to _Get Out_.”

“Okay, but it’s gross,” counters Archie. “And scary.”

“You’re scared?”

“I didn’t say I was scared, I said it was scary!”

Jughead rolls his eyes and busies himself changing the reels. Archie feels his face go pale as the first few images flicker onto the screen. “Oh, shit,” he whispers.

“Dude, it hasn't even started. You’ve seen it before.”

“No, the car, Jughead!” Archie stands up, wincing at the ache in his legs. “The DeLorean. We just left it in the parking lot. What if someone takes it to the police?”

Jughead looks wary, standing halfway in between Archie and the projector as though straddling an invisible plate. “Right…”

Archie brushes his jeans off. “We gotta hide it. We’ll push it into Fox Forest. Come on!”

“Fox Forest? I dunno, dude. That’s not the safest place, is it?”

“It’s the middle of the day, it’s safe. Just until the party tonight.”

Jughead scowls. Archie has a feeling his friend isn’t looking forward to the party at all. Jughead's never been fond of what he unaffectionately terms a _Seth Rogen-palooza._

"Fine." Jughead heaves a sigh. "You're right. Just make sure we put it somewhere we'll remember. We have to take Tanya back there as soon as we can." 

* * *

They stash the car behind the town sign, a mostly uphill push from the Twin Pines Mall that Jughead complains vocally about the whole way. Tripping over roots and rocks, they shove the DeLorean to the banks of Sweetwater, ease it behind the sign declaring Riverdale the town with _pep!_ , and toss handfuls of pine branches and foliage over the hood to disguise it. Archie’s reminded violently of the forts they used to build in the Northside woods when they were kids.

Fox Forest is creepy, even in the daytime. As long as Archie had been alive, his parents had told him seriously that it was off-limits. Before he was old enough to understand what _drug deals_ and _cruising_ meant, they’d instilled one word in his head when it came to the Southside woods - DANGER. They told him stories - pared down, never meant to scare him, but truthful - of residents who had gone into the woods and had never come out.

Sure enough, people had died here over the years - mostly gang-related incidents, but more than enough fodder for childhood ghost stories. And then there was the conviction every kid in Riverdale had that the place was _actually_ haunted. The adults let them think that because it kept them safe, but standing on the soft ground, staring out into the forest, Archie feels his childhood superstitions return with a vengeance.  

Despite the late afternoon sun filtering through the leaves, the forest is cold. An inexplicable wave of sweet-smelling fog hangs lazily above the surface of the water, heavy and glittery with sunlight. The old, dead trees creak in the wind, their branches rattling together like old bones. There’s a strong breeze, but the fog doesn’t move.

“Did you hear that?” he asks Jughead.

“Hear what?” Jughead’s actually eating. He’s unwrapped a candy bar from the sleeve of his jacket and is in the process of dropping the wrapper on the ground.

“Dude, don’t litter!” Archie scolds.

“Fine.” Jughead scoops it up and stuffs it in his pocket, raising an eyebrow at Archie. “Why, you think the ghosts won’t like it?”

Archie goes still again. He’d heard it again - a faint shout, somewhere far behind him in the woods. Beneath the creaking, swaying trees, there’s the sound of branches snapping. Like someone - or more than one someone - was pushing through the brush.

“Arch, you do this every time we watch a scary movie.”

“I’m just going to check it out,” says Archie, backing up toward the woods. “In case someone’s in trouble. Stay here with the car.”

“Oh, man, Archie, if Texas Chainsaw was real you’d be so dead.” Jughead takes another bite of his chocolate. “Fine. But only because it’s daytime, and I know you’re just twigging out over Candyman. Just don’t go farther than the fork.”

Archie rolls his eyes at him and turns his attention to the treeline. Sure, it could be nothing, but suppose someone was in trouble? Slipping back into the knot of trees, Archie pauses in the middle of the path, straining to hear anything from the direction he’d heard the sound.

 _Crack!_ A branch explodes like a gunshot somewhere ahead of him. Archie squints down the path but sees nothing - not even a squirrel. He opens his mouth to call out, but holds his tongue at the last minute. If it was gang-related, he didn’t want to give his presence away.

The footpath forks about three feet into the woods from the river, the two divergent paths separated by about eight or nine feet of brush. The noises had come from the direction of the left. Archie glances back toward the riverbank, where the route he’s standing on leads out into the light. He’d take a few steps down the trail. What Jughead didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Walking slowly, Archie heads in the direction of the noise. Though the sun slants in long strips of gold through the tree canopy, the air seems to grow colder the further he walks. Archie turns and looks back toward the riverbank. It suddenly seems farther behind him than he’d expected it to.

He was being stupid. If he got lost out here and stranded Jughead in the past without him, he’d never be forgiven. Also, these woods were majorly creepy. Turning around on the path, he intends to walk back the way he came when he hears the noise again. Voices, issuing from the right fork, some nine feet away from him to his left. Faintly, he can pick out the sound of brush snapping.

Archie stares into the woods separating the two paths. He could push through and come out the other side. Take a quick look around, make sure everything was all right, and then go back to Jughead that way.

Perfect. He’d do that.

Archie steps off the trail and starts to walk across the no-mans-land. He keeps himself walking in a straight line, moving from tree to tree instead of directly forward, touching every trunk. At last, he comes to a point where he knows he’s walked at least eight or nine feet. He should be coming out the other side, onto the other branch of the fork.

Only there’s still several meters of Fox Forest ahead of him.

Heart pounding, he keeps walking faster, shuffling through the carpet of pine needles and dead leaves that blanket the forest floor. When he still doesn’t find the path he starts to run, his sneakers crushing twigs into splinters under their weight. Suddenly, he pulls up short, almost falling over onto his ass.

A giant deadfall is barring his path. Ordinarily, Archie would have tried to scale it, but something about this one told him it wasn’t to be climbed. The branches were bleached white and jagged, enough that they looked more like old bones than fallen trees. Sharp edges stood up from every surface, guaranteeing that any slip would rip his hands and legs to shreds. He gets a creepy feeling in his heart the longer he looks at it, and quickly tears his eyes away.

He turns and walks briskly back in the other direction. He could come out on the left path and run back to the riverbank before Jughead could miss him. No matter how fast he walks, though, slapping the bark of every tree as though touching bases in tag, he can never seem to find it.

Archie starts to run, a light jog now, trying not to betray his panic. He should have come out on the path by now. He should have come out -

 _Stay put._ His father’s voice in his head, loud and clear as if he were beside him. _Archie, if you’re ever lost in the woods, stay put and I’ll come and find you._

He hadn’t stayed put. He’d turned around twice. And his dad had no idea where he was. Or who he was.

 _DAD!,_ he almost screams, childhood fear welling up in his heart, and then freezes.

A flash of something blue through the trees.

He heads in that direction, eyes watering from the effort of not blinking. Something shiny gold winks at him through the forest, and he walks determinedly toward it, never taking his eyes off the place the blue had disappeared.

He knew what he’d seen. A letterman jacket. Or rather, someone wearing a letterman jacket.

 _Jason_ , the part of his mind that had just watched Candyman urges. Archie shudders and pushes the thought down. He walks harder and faster, pushing aside some branches and breaking through into -

The riverbank. The gold he’d seen was the sun reflecting off the water. Archie stands on the pebbled shore, blinking stupidly at the air. How had he turned himself around and come out by the water? Unless he’d walked through the whole woods -

With trepidation he approaches the shallows, noticing a flash of something blue at the bottom. He gasps in fright - _Jason, Jason, Jason_ \- and recoils in horror from what he sees before quickly realizing he’s staring only at his own reflection.

“Jug?” He calls warily, directing his voice down the riverbank. He couldn’t be too far from the sign. He turns around and suddenly freezes in place.

This one’s real. Up against the trunk of a huge maple tree, he can see the back and shoulder of someone in a letterman being pinned against the bark. There’s another boy directly in front of him.

Archie takes a few steps toward them before suddenly realizing exactly _why_ two boys would be pressed up against the tree at the edge of Fox Forest. The larger one has his back flat against the trunk, his chin tilted up to allow the other access to his neck. Before Archie’s eyes, the smaller boy sinks to his knees on the rocks, steadying himself with a hand around the back of the tree.

Oh, right. Right.

He really needed to listen to Kevin Keller sometimes.

Archie backs away as quickly as he can, trying to be quiet. Unfortunately, his foot lands on a massive piece of driftwood, which explodes with a sound like a gunshot. The bigger boy twists around and looks around the trunk of the tree, his eyeline blessedly landing a few feet away from where Archie dives for cover. His foot ends up in a shallow pool of water as he lands on his rear, and cold river water rushes into his sock. He moves quickly, but not quickly enough to miss what he’d seen.

It’s FP. The very same FP he’d run into in the school hallways that morning.

Archie’s mouth goes dry. Sinking back into the shadows at the edge of the treeline, he crosses his fingers on both hands and shoves them in his pockets, closing his eyes tight and willing the image away. It sticks. He’d only seen a flash of the football player’s face, but he was certain.

“What is it?” he hears someone ask. Archie opens his eyes to slits to see if he’s caught. The smaller boy has risen up from his knees, peering off into the forest where FP’s looking and giving Archie a good look at his face for the first time.

He’d asked his father once if he hadn’t ever cut class at his age. Fred had given him an adamant no. But for the second time that day, Archie’s staring at a younger version of Fred Andrews - his shirt untucked from his jeans and his hair in disarray. For the first time, Archie notices the earring dangling from his right ear. He claps both hands over his mouth in case he screams.

“It’s nothing,” he hears his father say, watches him hook a finger into the belt loops of FP’s jeans, tugging him back toward the treeline. “Come on.”

Archie sits still as they walk away, heart filling his throat, his right shoe sinking deeper and deeper into the mud.

* * *

“Dude, I seriously thought Candyman got you,” Jughead greets him as Archie steps back out of the trees. His friend has managed to bury the DeLorean completely in pine branches, so that it’s completely invisible from the path. “It was nothing, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” says Archie seriously, glancing one last time at the buried car. “It was nothing.”


	5. Halloween Night

“When I was a kid,” Archie says, his converse sneakers crunching in the slurry of dried leaves that covered the pavement, “I always thought Halloween was too short.” A gust of wind sends some leaves tumbling over his feet. “I thought it would be so great if I could live Halloween over and over again.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” says Jughead dryly – or as dryly as he can manage with a plastic Frankenstein mask covering his mouth. “Though, I’m hoping we only have to do this once. Oh god.” Archie’s best friend stops short, tucking his balled hands into his hoodie pocket to spare them from the chilly October breeze. “I can hear it.”

The street they’re walking down, squinting through the eye-holes of their dime-store masks, is lined with bright orange trees, muddy in the dark, their colourful branches concealing well-raked lawns and rows of expensive stone houses. Cheerfully carved Jack-O-Lanterns flicker from almost every porch rail and window, trussed-up scarecrows and thinly-spread cobwebs turning ordinary driveways into haunted wonderlands. Pounding music is issuing from the end of the cul-de-sac, punctuated by the ghostly whoops of adolescent voices. Archie nudges Jughead from behind so he’ll keep walking.   

“Okay, I’m just going to say it.” Jughead sounds considerably grumpier the closer they get to Rick Mantle’s house. “Reggie’s dad makes Reggie look tame.”

Archie can’t disagree. The house they finally reach is the largest on the block, with a series of stone steps set into the front yard and a sunken driveway that’s big enough to house six or seven cars. A handful of other cars are parked up and down the street, releasing costumed students who hop gleefully out with clanking six-packs clasped in their hands. The front of the house is decorated from porch to gutter with fake cobwebs, pumpkin lights, and a trio of jack-o-lanterns carved to look as though they’re vomiting pumpkin seeds. Music thumps from inside, the lyrics muffled under a heavy bass line. The party seems relatively subdued - it was a Monday night, after all - but Jughead is shifting from foot to foot like he’s on the top of the high dive at the Riverdale pool. 

“This is going to be quick, okay?” Jughead instructs him anxiously, turning his plastic Frankenstein face to Archie. “We go in, we find Tanya, we get out. I don’t want to think about all the ways we could mess up our parents futures. And no matter what, do not kiss anyone. Do not sleep with anyone. Do not fall in love with anyone.”

“You don’t have to tell me that!” Archie wrinkles his nose. “This whole thing is too weird already.”

“Look, I’m just saying, I wouldn’t put it past you.” Jughead heaves a deep breath and crams his beanie down further on his head, over the mask. He looks ridiculous in his hoodie, jeans, and crown hat. “All right. Let’s do this.”

Humoring him, Archie readjusts his hockey mask so it covers as much of his face as possible. A chill spills involuntarily down his spine as the hard plastic obscures his vision, Halloween-eerie. He was out of his time, and no one here knew who he was or where he was supposed to be. If he disappeared tonight, there would be no one to miss him.

Stupid. He shakes off the fearful thoughts, relishing instead in the anonymity of a pretend identity. Jughead reaches for the doorbell when they get there, but Archie bats his hand away and goes straight for the knob. Before he can turn it, though, the door swings open in their faces.

“Whazzup?” A drunk Rick Mantle greets them, a multitude of gold chains hanging around his neck and a pair of obnoxiously black sunglasses on. Archie squints, trying to decipher his costume, and Rick cranes his neck forward as though he’s squinting right back. “Who are you guys? It’s dark. Manny-?” He reaches out for Archie’s face, and Archie ducks away from his arm. Rick scowls darkly under the shades.

“Masks off, dudes.”

Archie lifts his mask up obediently, feeling oddly chastised. Jughead does the same, and Rick recoils from his face as though Jughead had revealed something horrible.  

“Who are you?” he asks aggressively, lifting a handful of sour patch kids to his mouth and tipping them in. Jughead is craning his neck to see over Rick’s shoulder, but in the crowded darkness of the house, making out individual faces is impossible. Before Archie can begin to concoct a story, a brown-haired teenager in a denim getup suddenly appears at Rick’s elbow.

“Who’s here? Hey, it’s you guys!” Archie, abruptly recognizing his father, backs up two steps and almost pushes Jughead off the porch. Young Fred turns to Rick, a big grin on his face. “Let them in, Ricky, I know them.”

“They’re frosh,” says Rick disdainfully, but opens the door a bit wider.

“We’re sophomores,” Archie speaks up, a little insulted. 

“Yeah, Rick, they’re sophomores,” says Fred with an easy smile, leaning against the doorframe. He’s wearing a denim vest, a bandanna tied around his forehead. Archie takes a third step back as precaution. He has a bad feeling if their shirtsleeves brush they might rip the universe apart. “Don’t stress.”

“Fine,” says Rick in a bored tone, pushing past them out on the lawn. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to lock the garage before Mason yakks in my Ferrari.”

“Moose?” Archie mouths, turning to Jughead, but he’s interrupted by his father’s teenage hand landing hard on his wrist. He freezes tight, but the universe around them remains intact. Fred, moving with ease through the crowds of revelers, starts dragging Archie into the house as effortlessly as though he were five years old at a crowded baseball game.

“Okay, where do I know you from?” Fred yells over the music as he pulls Archie further and further away from the door. “It’s been driving me crazy all day.” 

Archie glances back over his shoulder to Jughead, who points at the ceiling and mouths the words “split up.” Archie nods, gulping. Jughead would probably have better luck finding Tanya than he would. But the thought of being alone with Fred made him anxious.

“I like your costume!” Fred shouts, piloting Archie into the kitchen. A huge, beer-sticky island is littered with empty vodka bottles, Halloween candy wrappers, and red solo cups. Fred pours himself a shot from a dubiously-labelled bottle of something amber and offers an empty shot glass to Archie. 

“Are you drinking?” Archie asks, gaping. “On a school night?!”

“Hall-o-week, dude! Oh my god, you sound like my dad.” Fred knocks back the shot like it’s water, and Archie feels his jaw drop. “Okay, seriously, where have I met you before? You look so familiar. What did you say your name was?” 

“I- I didn’t.” Archie stammers.

“A man of mystery. I like it.” Fred grins toothily at him. He unwraps a small candy bar and pops it whole into his mouth. “God, you’re so young. Did I coach your little league or something?” 

Archie feels an absurd laugh building in the back of his throat. “Um - maybe.”

“No, that’s not it,” Fred frowns and pulls the bandanna off of his head, scratching at his sweaty hairline. “Are you looking for someone?”

Archie’s heart leaps, and he seizes the chance. “Tanya Doiley. Do you know her?”

Fred purses his lips and thinks. “She’s a cheerleader. Nah, I haven’t seen her. You can hang out with me, though. If you want.”

“Do you know who would know her?” Archie asks, his heart sinking, but Fred’s fumbling with his top vest pocket and doesn’t seem to hear.

“Mind if we go in the backyard?” Fred asks suddenly, and Archie’s startled to see him holding up a cigarette and a lighter. “I want to light this.” 

“You smoke too?!” Archie yelps. Fred gives him a long-suffering look, already pushing the patio doors open.

“God, you really are my dad. You need to stop tripping, dude. Be more mellow. Just like, go with the flow, you know?” He motions for Archie to join him out on the porch, and Archie follows obediently. Fred lights the cigarette and holds it out. “You want some?” 

“Dad-!” begins Archie sharply, batting it away, and immediately claps a hand over his mouth. Fred gives him a weird look, but pops the cigarette back in his mouth.

“I don’t do this often,” he admits, exhaling a long plume of smoke into the backyard. “I’m just trying something. My girl’s into the bad guy image.”

“Mary?” asks Archie, feeling a quick little jump in his heart.

“Who? Hermione,” corrects Fred. “Her name’s Hermione. Head cheerleader. You probably know her.”

“Yeah, I think I might,” Archie says awkwardly. His face is getting hot. This is weird. Too weird. And awful. He’s about to make some excuse to leave when the patio door slides open and his path is barred by a blonde girl in fishnets, her hands planted on her hips in a way that strikes Archie as oddly familiar. 

“Hey, Freddie, can I bum a smoke?”

“Alice, get your own,” Fred tosses back, and Archie almost chokes on his spit when he recognizes her. Alice Cooper! Prim, cardiganed, helicopter-mom Alice Cooper. Standing in front of him in a tiny leather skirt and a beret.

This was possibly the scariest Halloween he’d ever lived through.

“This is all I’ve got,” says Fred. Alice snorts, turns on her heel, and stomps back into the party, flipping Fred the bird over her shoulder.

“I’ll ask FP!” she calls.

“Good luck finding him!” Fred shouts back. Archie’s eyes land again on the cigarette tucked between his fingers. 

“My grandpa died from lung cancer,” Archie blurts out.

“Bummer,” says Fred, and takes a swig from his beer. “Sorry.” 

“My dad calls them coffin nails,” says Archie, eyes fixed closely on Fred’s face. His father turns to look at him, blowing a steady stream of white smoke out beside Archie’s ear.

“Mine too.” 

“Don’t smoke it,” Archie blurts out finally, reaching his hand out for the roll. Fred, surprised, hands it to him without complaint. “Just don’t. Please?” He glances down at the patio and considers pitching the cigarette off.

“Whatever you want, dude,” says his father, unconcerned. “Let’s go play beer pong.” 

Before Archie can react, Fred’s turned and slipped back through the patio door, his hand reaching out and clasping Archie’s wrist to pull him along behind. He finds himself suddenly dragged back into a throng of sweaty bodies, and barely remembers to toss the still-lit cigarette backward off the balcony before he’s inside. Archie glances around the room full of people, his neck tilted up like he’s trying to keep his head above water.

Fred’s drunken grasp on his wrist has slackened somewhat, and he carefully eases his sweat-slick hand out of his father’s grip, counting on the stream of bodies to separate them. Sure enough, Fred is swallowed immediately by a crowd of other seniors, and Archie pushes frantically through students as he tries to make his way back to the front of the house. He glances back to make sure he’s put enough distance between Fred and himself, and immediately runs smack into a group of three girls.

“Sorry!” Archie exclaims, feeling a spray of something damp on his neck as one of the girls’ drinks upends on his shirt. They draw back from him, muttering unhappily, and he recognizes with a start that the tallest one is the girl with the braid he’d admired in the hallway – her hair now pulled back with a cat-ear headband to match her Catwoman outfit. He thinks with a strange pang of the battle of the bands, and of Josie back home. 

The girl whose drink he’d spilled, dressed as a flouncy Cinderella, doesn’t seem upset at all – probably because most of the punch had landed on her friends. “Oh my god, were you talking to Fred Andrews just now?” She leans in close to Archie, her eyes shiny with drink. “He is so hot.” 

“Ew!” complains Catwoman, fixing her friend with a look of utmost distaste. “As if!”

“Yeah, ew,” adds Archie awkwardly, looking around quickly for an exit. “Um. Excuse me.”

“Wait.” An arm comes out and grabs him firmly by the bicep, Catwoman’s long, glittery fingernails digging in. “What’s your name? I’m the student body president. I want to know everyone’s name.”

Archie freezes. His eyes flicker to the right, where he can see a group of boys through the glass, surrounding an expensive-looking car that had been driven up onto the grass. Two of them are dressed as Sesame Street characters. 

“Bert,” he blurts out anxiously, turning his attention back to the girl. Fortunately, her attention is now on her friend.

“Ellen, you have to get it together,” Catwoman is scolding. “If you marry a small-town boy like Fred Andrews, you’re just going to spend your whole life having his kids and cleaning up after him. And one day I’m gonna be somebody, and you’re just gonna be, like, totally jealous.”

“Oh!” says Archie before he can help himself, realization dawning on him as he finally recognizes her. “ _Shit_.” He blurts out. “ You’re the mayor.”

Young Sierra turns to him, eyes twinkling, straightening her cat headband. “Oh, you know what? I could be mayor.” She turns back to her friend. “Don’t you think I should run for mayor?” She gives Archie’s arm a hearty squeeze. “He’s cute, I like him.” 

“He kind of looks like Fred.” offers Ellen.

“Oh my god, you have a one-track mind.” Sierra waves frantically across the room. “Mary! Hey!”

Archie’s heart stops. He spins around, eyes frantically searching the crowd, terrified of what he’s looking for. It was too much to hope that Sierra was gesturing to some other Mary. He knew darn well they’d been friends before he was born.

A girl dressed as Princess Leia is suddenly walking over to them, and Archie quickly averts his eyes. He tries to look around for an escape route, but Sierra is still holding tight to his arm.

“What are we talking about?” asks Archie’s mother when she reaches the group. Archie keeps his eyes down at the floor. He couldn’t fool his mom. One good look at him and she’d know. 

Fortunately, Sierra takes the lead. “Ellen literally still has a thing for Fred Andrews.”

Princess Leia scoffs. “Gross. He’s such a loser, El.”

“What?” Archie asks, starting as he realizes Mary too has a red cup in her hand. Her red hair is done up in two buns on each side of her head. Sierra drops Archie’s hand at last to point them out to Ellen.

“Ooh, Mary, your costume is awesome.”

But Mary isn’t done. “I’d rather cut my own feet off than go out with Fred. He’s disgusting. He’s the most immature person I’ve ever met.” She punctuates this with a gulp of her punch, a dribble of orange spilling down her chin. 

“W-what?” stammers Archie, his face pale. But he’s ignored.

“Ellen wants to have his kids,” chortles Sierra, earning her a glare from Ellen.

Mary snort-laughs. “I hope to god he never has kids.” She turns to Archie, looking him full in the face for the first time. Archie’s stomach leaps in fear. His knees almost buckle. “Don’t you hope Fred Andrews never has kids?”

“I um-” Archie glances wildly around the room, swallowing hard. “I have to go.” 

In front of his mother’s astonished eyes, he turns around and sprints back in the direction he’d come from.  


End file.
